Raincheck
by LJC
Summary: Clark's not quite himselfand Chloe's not sure how to handle the new Clark. A scene I wish were in Red. Written in August, based on spoilers.


Author's Note: Okay, so here's the thing... Ever since the spoilers for _Red_ hit the 'net, I've been obsessed. With smutty thoughts. Even more so than usual. And if you know me, then you should be very, very afraid. So, doodled the following two "missing scenes" for _Red_... (which, granted, it's particularly smutty compared to the **fabulous** smut that's out there, but is pretty gosh darned smutty for li'l ole me.)

Addendum: this story was written in late August, several months before _Red_ aired.

**Raincheck**  
by Tara LJC O'Shea

Chloe thumbed through one of the files in the filing cabinet, chewing on her bottom lip as she went through clippings from the Planet. Finding the story she'd been looking for, she turned to go back to her desk, and almost jumped out of her skin as she came face to chest with Clark Kent.

"Jesus, Clark! You scared me. I didn't hear you come in."

He smiled down at her, but didn't step back. Instead, he reached out to brush her hair back from her face. "Chloe, I've been wondering something all morning."

"What?" she asked, annoyed with herself that his sheer proximity was making her cheeks warm.

"I've been wondering," he said lazily, curling a lock of her hair around one finger, "if your lip gloss was grape or watermelon."

"Clark?" she asked, confused, "What's going—" she began, but her question was lost as his mouth covered hers.

Chloe had always laughed at the trite, flowery descriptions of kisses in romance novels. Stuff like "His lips descended on hers, his tongue plundering the warm depths of her mouth," etc. However, she couldn't help but be struck by the fact that that was _exactly_ what he was doing. 

Her eyes went wide as he backed her against the filing cabinet, the drawer handle digging into the spot between her shoulder blades as he slipped one denim clad thigh between her legs. She completely forgot how to breathe as pretty much all her girl parts were suddenly in close proximity to his boy parts.

His really _excited_ boy parts. In the Torch office. In the middle of the day. Where anyone could waltz right in and witness this little porno-in-progress. Using both hands braced against his shoulders, she dragged her mouth from his and he quirked one eyebrow as he licked his bottom lip.

"Strawberry? Now, see, that I never would have guessed."

She tried to back away, but she was trapped between the filing cabinet and three miles of tight black t-shirt clad farmboy with a predatory gleam in his eye. The only thing Clark was ever predatory about was his mother's peach cobbler. She felt like she'd stumbled into the Twilight Zone.

"Clark, what the hell?"

"I just realised that I've been wasting my time," he said with a shrug, and leaned forward, lips brushing her temple, tongue tracing the curve of her ear. "All those nights mooning over Lana," he whispered huskily, his breath tickling her neck, "when I could have been with you."

She blinked, her mouth suddenly dry. He was saying everything she'd ever wanted to hear, but he wasn't quite _Clark_. Klaxons continued to go off in her brain as his hand drifted down to her hip, pulling her flush against him.

"Um, Clark? You didn't happen to run into any extinct sunflowers that spit glowing green pollen into your face this morning, did you?" She pressed her hand against his forehead, trying to see if he had a fever. "Or maybe last night? Or, you know, any time in the last two—"

He cut her off with another kiss, even hungrier than the last, and she was fighting for breath when he finally let her come up for air.

"...or maybe hyenas?" she asked, dazed, and he chuckled.

"Don't tell me you've never imagined one of those nights where we're working late on the Torch," he smiled again, and it was as far away from the familiar doofy smile she'd come to associate with the Kent charm as it could be while still being called a smile. "And we just threw caution to the wind..." he picked her up and the next thing she knew she had her back against the Wall of Weird, a few articles ripping free from the pushpins that held them and floating lazily to the floor. Her hands gripped his shoulders and her legs were wrapped around his waist and to keep from falling, and her skirt had ridden up almost completely.

Oh great—excited girl parts up against excited boy parts. So not good.

"I mean, I know I always said I didn't want to end up on your Wall," he said with a chuckle, "but I have to admit, the mental image of _you_ on it turns me on."

"Have you been reading Pete's Maxim magazines again?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light despite the way her heart was jack-hammering in her chest. "Because only in Neanderthal-world do women really want to be dragged off to a cave by their hair."

"Come on, Chlo—I know you want me."

_Not like this_, her brain screamed as he took her hand from his shoulder and began sucking on her fingers one by one, while simultaneously demonstrating that friction was a wonderful thing.

_Okay, maybe kinda like this_—she admitted to herself even as she bit her lip against a moan— _but not with whoever this pod person is_. It took a Herculean effort, but she pushed away from him, getting her legs back beneath her and side-stepping his reaching arms.

"Clark, we so can't do this—" She backed toward the door, feeling for the knob with her fingers. "I mean, we could, but we shouldn't." She shook her head. "We _really_ shouldn't."

"Why?" he asked, green eyes boring into hers as he slipped one finger inside the open neck of her blouse and ran it along her collarbone. "We're in our prime—"

"You're in your prime. Technically, my prime won't actually come until my early 30s." She was babbling as she felt her hand brush the metal doorknob. "It's all just too fast—and you're not yourself."

Her hand closed on the knob, and before she could twist it the door opened from the outside, and she jumped as Pete stuck his head into the office.

"Pete!" She didn't think she'd ever been so relieved. 

"Yo, Clark—we've got gym in three minutes—where've you been?"

"Just helping Chloe with the Wall," Clark said as he picked up one of the fallen clippings from the floor and pressed it back into the corkboard scant inches from her head. His hand brushed her shoulder before dropped back to his side.

"Coach is gonna kick our butts," Pete grabbed his arm.

"Raincheck?" Clark asked with a wicked grin as he allowed Pete to drag him out into the hall. Chloe nodded before she could stop herself, and felt hot blood rush to her cheeks.

"What the hell was _that_?" she muttered to herself as she rebuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse.

* * *

Clark sat on the battered old couch in his "Fortress of Solitude", his head in his hands.

Pete and his folks may have forgiven him, and understood that he hasn't been in control, but he was seriously dreading school tomorrow. Heck, he wasn't sure he could even show his face outside the house right now. He still couldn't believe some of the things he'd said, some of the things he'd _done._ How was he going to explain himself to Lana? Lex? Chloe?

Oh God, _Chloe_...

He could feel a flush creep up his neck, his ears flaming as he relived their encounter in the Torch. It was as if he was watching a movie inside his head—as if it had all happened to somebody else. As if he hadn't been the one to kiss her until she'd gasped for breath. As if someone else had thrown her up against a wall, and sucked on her fingers like something out of a late-night cable movie.

Clark Kent didn't throw caution to the wind. He certainly didn't admit his deepest, darkest fantasies to his best friend while molesting her in the middle of a school day. With a shudder, he remembered how confused she looked, and how she'd scrambled to get away from him. He felt utterly ashamed. He'd used how she felt about him—used _her._

If Pete hadn't shown up when he had, Clark wasn't sure what might have happened. And that terrified him. If he'd hurt Chloe, he'd never be able to forgive himself. He looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Chloe's blonde head appeared, as if he'd summoned her. 

She was wearing jeans and a tank top, her ever-present computer bag slung over her shoulder. She marched over to the couch, closing the distance in four or five strides, dropped her bag next to the couch. It landed with a soft 'thunk', the strap slipping down her arm to pool on the floor. She stood in front of the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table and stared down at him, as if she was trying to puzzle him out. As if he were a rare and dangerous animal. He opened his mouth to say something—apologise, claim insanity, beg her for forgiveness. But he never got the words out, because all of a sudden he had a lapful of sexy best friend. 

It was just like in the Torch, except the tables were turned. He was too shocked to move at first, eyes wide open as she straddled his hips, one knee on either side of him. Five minutes ago, he was petty sure she was never going to speak to him again. Technically she still wasn't, but in terms of body language, he was getting a pretty clear idea of what she was trying to tell him. 

His hands slid up her thighs to rest on her waist, and his every intention was to pull away. But he couldn't seem to get his limbs to obey, as his brain started to seriously overload from the sheer mass of sensations resulting from where she was sitting, how she was sitting, and how she was _moving._

Where the heck had Chloe learned to move like _that?_

He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath as she lightly grazed his shoulders with her nails. He was light-headed as she sucked on his bottom lip, her tongue tracing his teeth. He groaned as she shifted her weight, hips rocking slightly, and suddenly his jeans were way too tight, and _in the way_. His arms tightened around her seemingly of their own volition, and his mouth opened under hers, their tongues duelling as her hands gripped his shoulders, her mouth moving slowly and sensually against his.

_You can't do this_, the rational part of his brain kept ordering him as Chloe threaded her fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth against hers with a sweet kind of urgency that threatened to drive coherent thought from his mind. _This is your best friend. You mauled her under the influence of that stupid rock, and now you're leading her on..._

She was still wearing strawberry lip gloss.

For a second, he wished he still _had_ the ring. Twelve hours ago, he would have given as good as he was getting, consequences be damned. But his friendship with Chloe was too important. Whatever future relationship they might have was too damned important to risk over hormones and meteor rocks. 

As if rousing from a dream, Clark lifted Chloe gently off his lap and set her down on top of the steamer trunk, taking his hands from her waist and catching her wrists.

"Chloe, wait. There's something..." he said, pulling her hands from his hair, his mouth still dangerously close to hers. "There's something I have to tell you."

"I know it's crazy," she said, panting slightly, her face lit with a mischievous grin. "But I decided to collect my raincheck."

She looked so happy—something inside him just twisted. "Chloe, you were right. I wasn't myself."

Her smile faded, and he could feel his cheeks burning as he continued. 

"What I did—what we did—it wasn't me. It wasn't us. I am so sorry—"

"Oh, God," her hand went to her mouth, and she blushed furiously. "Oh God, I'm an idiot. Oh my God." She covered her mouth with her hands, unable to look at him.

"Chloe—"

"I gotta go," she said as she lurched off the trunk, snagging the strap of her bag and ran pell-mell down the wooden stairs. 

* * *

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_," Chloe muttered to herself, tears pricking her eyes as she crossed the barn. Clark caught up with her before she could yank the barn door open.

"Chloe—wait." He held the door shut with one hand, the other hand catching her by the arm. "Chloe, I'm so sorry."

"I just—you have no idea. I spent the last day working up the courage to—I mean, I sat in my car for ten minutes out here, trying to figure out if I was just insane..."

"It was _my_ fault," Clark said firmly, swallowing hard. "I wish I could explain. I just... Went a little crazy."

"Yeah, 'cause nobody would kiss me if they were sane," Chloe said with a bitter little laugh.

"No!" Clark looked shocked, and she bit her lip as he tilted her chin so she'd meet his eyes. "Chloe, don't _ever_ think that."

He leaned down, and lightly brushed her lips with his. It may not have been the stuff of Barbara Cartland novels—or Cinemax after 11pm—but as kisses went, she didn't think she could find any room to complain. It was so gentle—so very much the Clark she remembered, before this whole crazy thing began. 

When they parted, they were both still blushing to beat the band, but her crippling embarrassment had faded, and she no longer wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. 

"Can I just... get a raincheck on my raincheck?" he asked, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I suppose," she sighed dramatically, and he grinned.

"So you won't be filing any sexual harassment suits any time soon?" he asked as they trooped back up the stairs.

"I won't if you won't," she promised and collapsed on the couch.

Clark flopped down beside her. "I won't be doing much of anything, any time soon, except chores, and serving detention until I'm 30," he sighed. "Just in time for your sexual peak," he added with a grin, and she whapped him on the shoulder.

"Give you something to look forward to," she giggled.

"Chloe?" he asked after a minute, and he was wearing his serious face again.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he said quietly.

She took his hand, and gave his fingers a squeeze. "Ditto."

He laughed. "Okay, but I wasn't actually _scared_ of you."

"You so were! I am more woman than you can handle."

"Are not!"

"Are too! Clark, no tickling! Stop it! I'm _so_ filing a sexual harassment suit, now!"


End file.
